Sickness
by doctorcoffeeboy
Summary: Sherlock comes down with a bout of sickness but being Sherlock, tries to deny anything is wrong until it catches up to him at a crime scene. Written for 'AssassinOfRome'. Non-slash, just bromance. Rated for elbow-room.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: This sprung up from my story 'Discoveries' and is written around a prompt given to me by '**_**AssassinOfRome**_**'. I guess this is sort of an apology for the Slash-ma attacks they have been receiving from the other fic. Sorry AOR! The prompt was as follows:**

Sherlock has been working on a case and has become ill. Only Sherlock knows how crap he is feeling and eventually it catches up to him. In front of John and Lestrade. And Anderson and Sally. And the Criminal.

Oh, this is my substitute for everyone that doesn't want to read the slash-fic: 'Discoveries' for whatever reason. Not that you can't read this even if you like the other one! This is obviously more from Ill!Sherlock at the request of AssassinOfRome and will be a few Chapters long, no idea how much.

**XxXxXxX**

"Tea?"

Sherlock jumped fractionally, John's question having woken him from deep concentration. He tried to answer but his body was still booting up and his vocal chords still heating, so all that John received was a sort of moan that was almost words but couldn't make the whole way to being pronounced.

John obviously understood his flatmates response, because Sherlock heard the seconds and only cup taken from the cupboard. They really had about five, but the washing up wasn't done yet so they only had that one cup left.

Sherlock decided he'd given his body long enough and opened his eyes, kicking his mind into gear from its almost overheated rest-mode.

They were currently in the midst of a particularly interesting case concerning several people all from Cambridge University in different classes who had been found mutilated beyond previously thought possible. Dental records had been the only way to identify them, and even that had taken its time. Due to the damage done, there were no fingerprints or traces of the murderer, and they were found on the other side of London, instead of at the lectures they were each attending at their own times. Sherlock had gleaned all he could from the crime scene and relayed all _'obvious'_ answers – 'just look at the way they were cut, obviously someone from out of town, male, left handed' – to John but until something new came up, there were no leads and so John had dragged Sherlock home and attempted to make him rest.

So Sherlock spent the night pretending to sleep on the couch and thinking through all he could work out, in case he'd missed something.

As soon as Sherlock's eyes were fully open, the detective became quietly aware of an ache appearing around his eye sockets, and his muscles sort of hurt, but it wasn't terrible. He frowned – another act which sort of twanged at his muscles – and realised his mind was being too sluggish and he felt…tired. This was definitely a problem. Sherlock was never _tired_ on a case.

Dismissing all of these new observations about himself as 'dull', Sherlock swung his legs round to rest his feet on the wooden floor, and let his head drop as he tore his hands through is hair, ruffling it.

As soon as his head moved out of the vertical position known as 'straight', Sherlock felt like a bowling ball had decided to make its presence known to him by smashing it's way into the space between his eyes.

It didn't take a genius like Sherlock – because of course he _knew_ he was a genius – to understand that he was ill.

But that didn't mean anyone else had to know about it and try to slow him down.

John placed a cup of tea in front of Sherlock and sat down opposite him on his armchair.

"You okay?" He asked carefully, noticing the sort of pained expression on his friend's face.

Sherlock's features cleared to blank instantly and Sherlock glanced at John. "I'm fine." He answered, taking a sip of tea.

"Are you sure? You look really pale." John frowned.

"I've always been pale John." Sherlock stated, looking away and closing his eyes against the dull ache.

John made a noise in the back of his throat that clearly showed he didn't believe Sherlock at all – being a Medical man himself – but knew he'd deny anything.

"So, if nothing comes up, what will you do?" John sat back in his armchair, and Sherlock let himself relax, leaning back into the couch.

"Something will. It has to." Sherlock murmured, trying to delete the throbbing pain in his head, but annoyingly finding it kept refreshing.

"You sound a little distracted, are you sure you're not feeling a little bit ill?" John tried again.

"I'm sure I'm fine John. Stop worrying." Sherlock sighed. He rubbed a hand across his face, waking himself up a little more, just as his mobile bleeped on coffee table in front of him, signalling a phone call. "Yes!" He murmured, grabbing it and putting it to his ear.


	2. Chapter 2

Sherlock strode confidently towards the crime scene, making himself take quiet long breaths. His head was hammering, his legs felt unsteady, and occasionally a shiver would threaten to expose itself even though he'd noticed by casually moving his hair out of his eyes that his forehead was burning.

Sherlock took one look at the body on the floor and looked back at Lestrade.

"Domestic, the Husband did it because of an affair."

"But he's not here." Lestrade frowned. "We can't find him anywhere."

"Well, if the murderer didn't know or care about the woman, it would have been a straight shot, but this hit at an angle, and it's not clean, so he was probably shaking. Plus, her ring has been removed by him." He crouched next to the woman, nausea threatening to overrun him again. He paused, closing his eyes and forcing his breathing to stay as normal as possible.

"Sherlock?" Lestrade prompted. Sherlock's eyes snapped open.

"Oh, yes. Well, she died on impact, but whoever removed the ring had blood on them, her finger is slightly red. Difficult to see in the half-light, I take it Anderson's on Forensics?" He looked up as the man entered. "That explains things." He murmured.

Sherlock stood up, and turned away casually, as if looking at the other objects in the room, as he schooled his features from the slight pain of headaches to his favourite 'bored' expression.

Anderson was scowling at him, hatred pouring from his figure. "So, where is he then?"

Sherlock looked up. "Directly above us, and scared out of his wits now he knows we know."

They were silent and heard scuffling a few feet above them, as if someone was trying to hide.

Lestrade watched as Sherlock stretched up, closing his eyes discretely against the pull of his stomach, and pulled down the toggle on the attic entrance, stepping back to allow the stairs to crash down.

Sherlock looked at Lestrade pointedly, and the DI walked forward, pulling Sally and Anderson with him.

Once they were up, Sherlock jumped up the stairs to, closely followed by John.

Lestrade was clapping handcuffs onto the man, who was laughing almost to the point of insanity.

Sherlock came to a halt just in a few feet in front of the stairs he had just climbed up. He was aware of Anderson saying something, but drowned it out, deciding it wasn't important. He had more important things on his mind.

The fact that his vision had blurred and he felt very unbalanced all of a sudden, for instance. Or the fact that his breath had hitched in his throat.

He was aware of John calling his name again, but had no time to register as he allowed his knees to crash to the floor, and his stomach decided that although he'd hardly eaten, it was about time for him to dispose of anything that was left.

It had been years since Sherlock had been properly ill, and he'd manage to sort it alone, well. He'd had to. This time though, he had John rubbing soothing circles on his back, telling him it was okay, and Lestrade on his other side, a hand on his shoulder.

A few moments later, his body just stopped working, and his vision went dark as he collapsed.

XxXxXxX

**A/N: Hullo everyone! I got prompted by the marvellous **_**AssassinOfRome**_** to update, well. She was kinder worded - assuming on the 'she' business. Sorry if not :) – in simply asking how I was doing and not to worry if I'd forgotten. In truth? Perhaps. I was working on my Script Frenzy project – anyone else? I'd love to hear about it – so I only have time for stories around that and homework. Who the hell invented homework? I bet they hate kids that want to write.**

**Anyway, a bit of a short one for you today, but please review anyway. I'm not sure with how this was written, seemed too comical, but that's all I can get today. Sorry! **


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N: This chapter needs to be dedicated to _Anowen18_ for messaging me and reminding me how guilty I felt for this fic and all my others for not being updated in over a year. I'm sorry and I'm trying to get back on track. Probably only one or two chapters of this one left. Also _charliebrown1234 _and_ AssassinOfRome, _obviously. I'M SORRY AOR.**

**I'm not sure about this one, and I realised yesterday while reading the other two chapters that the first chapter references a case that the second chapter had nothing to do with, so I may work back to that. Just imagine that domestic case was one on the side until they can solve the University student case.**

**I've kept you waiting long enough, so onwards!**

**-Sickness-**

John and Lestrade reached out in unison as Sherlock's body relaxed and unconsciousness took over. Acting purely on instinct, John moved Sherlock into the recovery position, vaguely registering Lestrade crouching beside them again, his expression a mix between concern and a hint of something that suggested he'd been in this situation before.

Moments later, Sherlock's eyes fluttered open again, frowning in confusion.

'I did ask if you were okay, several times.' John told him seriously. 'You're supposed to tell my these things, Sherlock.'

'I was fine…' If either man above him noted the past tense, they didn't mention it.

Sherlock struggled to sit up, leaning against the hand John put on his back for support silently, hearing Lestrade commanding Anderson and Sally.

'Sally, take him downstairs.' He gestured at the man in the handcuffs. 'Anderson, clean this up.' He gestured at Sherlock's creation.

'Wha- I.. Ugh. Fine.' Anderson sighed, glaring at Sherlock. 'You did that on purpose.' He muttered.

'Yes, I planned on being ill and disgracing myself in front of you.' Sherlock murmured. John smirked, glad to see his flatmate wasn't too ill to be himself around everyone.

'Come on, let's get you home, you're going to rest, stay rested, and let Mrs. Hudson fuss over you. And I'm going to take time off work.'

'John, that really isn't necessary…' Sherlock tried, but John helped him up and pushed him towards the ladder and kept a hand on his back all the way to the door.

As soon as they stepped out of the house, a wave of nausea ran through Sherlock, obscuring his vision and making him lean against a low wall.

John's hand rubbing circles on his back helped ground him, and he focused on his voice as John told him that he needed to get it all out of his system. As if in response, he felt his stomach churn again, and leant over the wall as he choked up stomach acid with John speaking calmly in the background.

It was soon over, and Sherlock stood slowly, looking around to see John on his mobile, calling a cab.

'Come on Sherlock. You shouldn't be outside. How the hell did you get this ill without noticing or telling me?'

Shrugging, the younger man started to walk hesitantly towards where the cab would pick them up. 'I thought I could handle it. I've been ill and looked after myself before.'

'Yes, and now I'm here. We've talked about this, Sherlock. As your doctor and your friend, I'm entitled to know when you're not feeling up to scratch.' A touch of exasperation slipped into his voice.

'Okay. My apologies, John. I'll try to tell you in future.' Sherlock smiled weakly as the cab pulled up and John held the door open for him.

Once inside, John gave the address and looked across at his friend, who had relaxed back against the upholstery, eyes closed and a faint sheen on his forehead. A quick check confirmed he had a fever.

'You'd better hope this isn't too serious, otherwise I'll have no choice but to send you to a hospital.' He scorned. Sherlock's eyes snapped open and he glanced worriedly at his John.

'No hospitals.' He stated as strongly as he could. John nodded.

'No, not yet at least. Get some rest; it's twenty minutes back to Baker Street.' He gently placed his hand over Sherlock's wrist, keeping track of his heart rate without disturbing him as the consulting detective instantly fell into a restless state of unconsciousness.

-**Sickness-**

The cab pulled up on the curb directly outside the flat, and John handed a set of notes across, leaving the driver to sort out the change while he shook the sleeping form beside him gently.

'Sherlock…? Sherlock you need to wake up so we can get inside, okay?'

Sherlock mumbled incoherently but showed no signs of waking as the man driving them both handed across John's change.

'Sherlock? Wake up. Come on.' He shook him again, relieved when his eyes opened slowly.

'John?' He frowned. John smiled reassuringly.

'Hey. You need to get up and out of the cab so I can get you to bed, alright?' He asked carefully, not wanting to talk down to Sherlock but not wishing to confuse him as he was clearly not completely aware of things as he usually was.

Nodding, Sherlock climbed out of the door onto the curb, and walked over to the door, looking around as he waited for John, seeming almost like he wasn't ill at all.

'You know, you can drop the act, Sherlock. I already know you're not well.' John unlocked the door and held it open, gesturing he go first. 'So what's the point?'

'Habit.' Sherlock answered, already heading for the stairs, leaning against the wall at the top as he tried to get his breath back.

'Well you need to stop it so I can tell what's wrong and when, okay? Go and get changed, then come back to the kitchen. If you need me, call, okay?' John gently pushed Sherlock towards the door that lead straight to his room.

'Yes, John.' Sherlock did as he was told for once and went through, leaving John to gather the things needed to make soup quickly. He would rather have had time to make it by hand, but Sherlock needed warmth and something in his stomach as soon as possible, so it would just have to be by the can.

Five minutes later, Sherlock stepped back into the kitchen in his pyjamas, looking paler than usual as he slumped into the chair at the table, absently pushing the experiments away to clear a space in front of him. 'So what's on the menu, doctor?' He asked slightly teasingly.

'Tomato soup and tea.' John replied without missing a beat. 'You can't have solid food, but soup is the best option, and tea will calm you down, help you relax. Then you will take a few sleeping pills and bloody rest. Not like last night. I know you were faking it.'

Sherlock frowned. 'I underestimated you, John. I was sure you wouldn't notice.'

'You still looked exhausted, Sherlock. It doesn't take a genius.' John put the mug of tea in front of him, and went back to pull the soup from the microwave, stirring it a few times to check it was fully heated before placing it in front of Sherlock. 'Now, eat this, and don't complain.'

Nodding, Sherlock set about wondering if it counted as food or drink, and began to eat it how Mycroft had taught him a long time ago, guiding the spoon away from him, instead of towards himself, so as to avoid spilling it all over himself, an expression of strong concentration of his features.

John smiled, leaning back against the counter, sipping his own tea. It was rather like looking after a child, but the thought that no one else had ever looked after Sherlock when he was ill was a horrible one. He vowed silently to make sure Sherlock got well as soon as possible, to make up for all the times he'd have had to suffer alone.


End file.
